


Jace the Mind Sculptor

by Angsthase_mtg



Category: Magic: The Gathering
Genre: Dubious Consent, Jace is not big on consent unless you literally threaten him with lightning bolts, Mind Manipulation, Not Beta Read, Only telepaths don't need safewords, Ravnica
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-06-26 15:41:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19771315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Angsthase_mtg/pseuds/Angsthase_mtg
Summary: The sculpture is already complete within the marble block, before I start my work. It is already there, I just have to chisel away the superfluous material





	1. Winner of the One In a Million Contest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you entered the raffle for a date with your choice of runner from the Dragon's Maze, you knew you would never win. The odds were one in a million.  
> Then you won.

“Guildpact,” Lavinia said respectfully from the doorway. Respectful, but an unyielding taskmistress nonetheless.

“I can't do any more paperwork tonight,” Jace sighed. “I need to get out of the office.”

“How fortunate for you, then, that I've come to remind you to do just that.”

Jace looked up, his blue eyes surprised, hopeful but wary.

“You have that appointment this evening,” Lavinia reminded him. “With the prizewinner from the One in a Million contest.”

Jace groaned. “I have to get _away_ from work! I don't think I can stand to spend the evening with another petitioner who wants the ear of The Living Guildpact.”

Lavinia looked at the winning entry card in her hand, the careful script spelling out the name of the Ravnican celebrity with whom the winner wished to dine. “That . . . may not be an issue,” she said carefully.

* * *

The One in a Million contest had been a fundraiser to pay for the new Hall of the Guildpact after Jace Beleren assumed the position. One million tickets were sold at one zino each, with a limit of one ticket per person. Despite that restriction, they had sold out in days. You had bought one, of course.

As a prize in the raffle, a dozen prominent Ravnican citizens had offered themselves for an evening together. Big names, but only one of them had ever really tempted you. Jace Beleren, the Living Guildpact. There was no way you were going to win; the odds were literally one in a million. You were just buying a piece of fantasy. There was no harm, then, in filling in a slightly different title on the entry form, where it asked for your partner of choice.

* * *

“Jace the Mind Sculptor,” Jace read from the card. “Is this some sort of joke?”

“No,” said Lavinia, “I believe it's some sort of date.”

* * *

You had decided dozens of times not to actually schedule the meeting, of course. The fantasy of Jace was compelling, but the reality . . . well, there was no way to know about the reality.

There was **one** way to know about the reality.

You had scheduled the meeting.

* * *

“What does a mind sculptor even wear?” Jace demanded.

“Given that it is Jace, I imagine he wears the same thing you normally do,” Lavinia said sensibly. “Though perhaps a cleaner version.”

* * *

There was probably still time to back out, you reasoned. Surely they wouldn't send Azorius arresters to take you in for the crime of standing up The Living Guildpact.

There was a knock on the door of your apartments. Peering through a peephole, you saw a young woman in an Azorius uniform. She knocked again, calling you by name. “I'm here to escort you to dinner with the Guildpact,” she called through the door.

“I'm . . . I'm not ready yet!” you call back, trying to keep your voice from cracking.

“That's fine,” she said, shifting to a parade rest stance. “I will wait.”

Eventually you decided to let the young woman into your apartment rather than leaving her to stand in the hall and make your neighbours wonder what you had done to attract Azorius attention. Her name was Damijana, and she hoped to become an arrester, one day.

“Why did they send you?” you ask, maybe a little plaintively.

“You cannot be allowed to carry weapons in the presence of The Living Guildpact. Therefore, for your safety, you may require an escort through the streets of Ravnica.”

Okay. That made sense, at least. You weren't in trouble; this was just routine.

What does one wear to dinner with The Living Guildpact? Five changes of clothing later, each of which Damijana said looked absolutely fine and appropriate for dinner, you admitted to yourself that you were stalling.

“Do you know the Guildpact?” you asked her.

“I've only just begun working at the Hall of the Guildpact, but I have seen him in passing. He spoke to me once.”

“What's . . . what's he like?”

“Very busy. Always going somewhere. Very fond of coffee.” She thought a bit more. “Overwhelming.”

Overwhelming. Well, you certainly _felt_ overwhelmed.

Damijana looked at the angle of the sun slanting through your window and repeated, “He's . . . very busy.”

Right. Stop stalling, let's go. You gather your courage and follow Damijana into the evening.


	2. Dinner at with the Mind Sculptor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having finally stopped dithering, you make it to the restaurant to share a nice meal with Mr Beleren.

The Second Precinct is far nicer than your usual areas; everything seems a little fancier, even the vegetables on the freshly painted carts look more vividly coloured and perfectly shaped. Liveried goblins sweep the streets.

“What if I make a fool of myself?” you fret. “What if I . . . don't know which fork to use, or something?”

“I don't suppose you'll ever have to see him again,” Damijana offers. “And I think you're supposed to start with the outside fork and move in?”

You nod, not worrying less.

“Once we get to the restaurant, guards get to wait in the kitchen while our principals dine,” she confides. “More comfortable there, anyway.”

“Do you think I could come with you?”

Damijana looks dubious. “You want me to ask Jace Beleren, The Living Guildpact, to meet you in the restaurant's kitchen rather than at the table he reserved?”

That wasn't quite what you had meant.

“I suppose they'd _let_ him,” she muses. “Be awfully disruptive, though.”

“That, uh, won't be necessary.” you assure her.

Damijana leads you through the rich streets to an opulent looking entryway with “Milena's” inlaid in gold on a plate beside the door. She pulls the door open and ushers you inside, slipping past you as you try not to gawk at the entryway and having a word with a ratty looking man who must be the maitre d'hotel. He bows to her and she gives you a cheerful wave as she disappears into the back of the house.

“If you'll follow me,” the man says, and leads you through widely spaced tables of diners to a candle-lit table in the corner where a man in distinctive blue robes is reading a book. The maitre-d' clears his throat and Jace looks up.

“Ah, thank you, Valko,” he says with a smile.

Valko announces you by name, his pronunciation precise and his manner as deferential as if you really were somebody important. Jace meets your eyes and smiles, offering a hand.

“Jace Beleren,” he introduces himself, as though there were any question. Then, with a twinkle in his eye, he adds, “Mind Sculptor.”

You can feel the heat rising in your face as you try to sink into the thick padding on the chair.

“That's a new title for me,” he says, thankfully looking more amused than offended.

“It was, er, in a newspaper article,” you offer lamely. It was a tabloid headline, actually, with an article claiming Jace secretly came from another world. You don't think you need to mention that.

“You seem uncomfortable,” Jace says conversationally. “Are you afraid of me?”

“You must be reading my mind,” you attempt the joke.

“Not yet,” Jace says lightly, his eyes catching and holding yours. “Would you like me to?”

If your blush had faded, it returns now with a vengeance. You try to pull your eyes away but can't quite manage. “I, uhh...”

“ **Do** you?” he asks, and you find yourself nodding helplessly.

“Oh my,” he says, reaching out to touch your cheek with a hand that is beginning to glow blue.

That, of course, is when the waiter arrives with a round loaf of bread, speckled with cumin and salt, and still steaming from the oven. Jace's hand returns to its own side of the table. You're not sure whether you're more relieved or disappointed.

“Have you had a chance to look at the menus yet?”

“Not yet,” Jace tells him, and opens his menu.

You follow suit, trying to collect yourself during this reprieve. You are surprised that the menu is no more extensive than the variety offered by vendors on Tin Street, but each dish is lovingly described in elegant calligraphy. As are the prices. The cost of a single meal here would pay for a full week's rent on your apartments in the sixth precinct. You couldn't really have taken the Guildpact for spit-roast chicken on Tin Street, though. You hope your landlord is understanding.

Jace chuckles. “Consider the cost of the meal part of the prize package,” he says.

You had invited him to read your mind, you realise. Asked for it, even. You just need to keep your thoughts in order, you suppose, not think anything else embarrassing.

More laughter from the Guildpact. Amused, not mocking, you think. You hope.

“Minds are slippery things,” he tells you. “The more you try to avoid thinking about that one time -- the one that you especially don't want _me_ to know . . . 

Your mind helpfully fills in the blanks, the fantasies you had entertained about this very man.

“Exactly like that,” Jace says, and at least he seems amused, teasing you, rather than disgusted.

“You can stop reading my mind now?” you suggest, still beet-red.

“I could,” he says, “But where would be the fun in that?”

Where would be the fun in . . .. Stop. Don't think it. If you don't think it, he can't read it.

More laughter.

You try to concentrate on the menu. The meats are familiar, but everything seems to come with sauces and spices and other food to keep it company. Spit chicken is simple; why does this place need to dress it up with “a rich sauce of onions, green peppers, tomatoes, paprika, and sour cream?” Does it really need a bed of buckwheat groats, which are enough for a meal on their own, when money runs low? Jace rests a hand over yours, and you look up, afraid what you'll see in his eyes.

Compassion.

“I promise, the food is quite good,” he tells you. “But in the end, it's just food. It exists only to nourish and delight you. If you're going to be intimidated by something, maybe choose something that's not going to just sit on a plate while you eat it.”

Something like Jace himself, you make the connection. He winks at you.

You're beginning to think he _enjoys_ teasing you.

~~~

In the end, Jace orders food without consulting you. At least, he didn't consult you verbally. The plate of sliced sausage and intriguing cheeses is something you might have ordered, if you had known what to expect, though, so it might not be wise to worry too long about whether and how you were consulted.

“Jace, the Mind Sculptor,” Jace muses aloud. “And that's whom you wanted to meet. Perhaps even to have your mind . . . sculpted?”

You blush and pop a piece of white cheese in your mouth to avoid having to answer.

“An interesting concept. I met a sculptor, once. Made beautiful statues. Do you know what she told me?”

You shake your head, still chewing on the bite of firm, warmly spicy cheese.

“She said that the figure was always inside the block of stone,” Jace continues, “and that her job is simply to remove the pieces that didn't look like the statue.” He eats a bit of sausage before continuing. “So sculpture, then, is fundamentally a subtractive process. You remove the bits that aren't pleasing.”

You nod to show that you're paying attention, not quite sure where he's going with this but content to listen.

“The question, then, is,” Jace skewers you with his gaze, eyes glowing slightly blue in the dim restaurant, “just what part of your mind you think we ought to be carving away.”

You gulp, your mind racing without being able to lay hold of a single coherent thought.

“This shyness, perhaps?” he muses. “The way you blush . . . yes, just like that! and squirm when we talk about something you know you want to happen?”

You are squirming in your seat, and your face must be glowing red, but you can't respond. You don't need to.

“But no,” Jace says, reaching out to stroke your cheek with a single finger, ending under your chin and forcing you to raise your head and look at him. “You are actually _enjoying_ that, aren't you? The more you blush and squirm, the more helpless you feel, the more you're getting _exactly_ what you want.”

You want to protest, want to believe you'd run if you could, but his eyes hold you even more than his touch. You whimper softly and he hushes you.

“You wanted this, remember? The Mind Sculptor, you requested, and you certainly deserve your prize, don't you think?”

You shake your head. He chuckles.

“Well, maybe not _deserve_. But perhaps I'll choose to indulge you.”

You're having trouble remembering how to breathe. You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to think.

“Perhaps that stubbornness, then,” Jace suggests. “The refusal to admit that a thrill runs through you at the very idea of having me carve away a bit of who you are. The reflex to fight against your own fantasies.” His tone shifts, more demanding, “Open your eyes.”

You obey.

The entire world is nothing but Jace's eyes.

“But perhaps that's what makes it amusing for me,” Jace says carelessly, and pops another bit of meat into his mouth. “Your attempts to resist, even knowing you're doomed to fail.”

Your server returns then with two bowls of soup, a clear broth surrounding delicate yellow noodles, morsels of tender chicken, bits of mushroom, and vibrant green peppers and peas too fine to belong in a soup.

You watch Jace eat, copying his choice of spoon and the manner in which he dips soup away from him before bringing it to his mouth. This at least you can do to avoid shame, however out of your depth you may feel otherwise.

“How are you enjoying the soup?” Jace asks.

“It's good,” you say politely. It's thin, but the flavours are rich enough. 

“Would you like to enjoy it differently?” he asks, and there's a gleam in his eye.

“Is this . . . ” you wonder, but then you're aware of him _there_ , in your mind. The back of your neck prickles, like when somebody is standing too close.

“You doing okay?” he asks, using words, from across the table. Not behind you. Not inside your head.

 _«I'm here, too,»_ and it resonates in your head like a thought, but it's not _your_ thought. Your own thoughts are racing, urging you to move, to get away.

“Stop,” Jace says quietly, words and distance and a table between you. He's still there, though, in your head. You can feel him. “Take a breath. Nice and easy. Feel the air flowing into your lungs, and let yourself relax as you release it.”

You breathe, a little shakily.

“Now, how are you doing?”

“Okay, I think,” you manage.

 _«Okay?»_ It's inside your mind again.

You nod.

“Good,” he says, smiling in approval. “So, soup?”

“Soup?” you repeat, feeling stupid.

He nods, and you feel your own arm moving towards your soup bowl without your will. Panicky, you try to jerk it back.

 _«Easy,»_ you hear, firm and reassuring in your mind, but your hand follows your orders.

“Easy,” Jace repeats, words for your ears, a gentle gesture towards your bowl.

You lift another spoonful of soup to your mouth.

“Very good,” and you're torn between pleasure at his approval and embarrassment at that reaction.

 _«Even better,»_ his enjoyment of your discomfort is clear, and you look down at the soup and blush.

Green bits that look like grass and taste of onion float atop the golden broth. _Chives,_ he names them in your head, and urges you to taste them again. This time, your awareness of the flavour is overlaid by something difference, an awareness of the way the mild onionyness edges into garlic, and an appreciation of the herbs that have flavoured the broth. The slight bitterness of parsley, the balance of bay and thyme, weren't things you had quite noticed before. Now the distinctions are clear.

Another bite. The peas pop in your mouth, and the still-crisp peppers contrast with the tender chicken, everything somehow _more_ with Jace's guidance. You feel your awareness of his presence in your mind recede, but the next bite still has the same complexities. It's obvious, now that they've been shown to you.

“A mind once stretched by a new idea,” quotes Jace, “can never regain its previous dimensions.” He looks at you seriously. “Even so small a change as this . . . is permanent. Do you understand what you're inviting?”

You blink slowly, looking at him. “I'm beginning to.”

The waiter returns with more food -- a small piece of meat resting atop a bright orange paste, with two slices from a rolled pastry on the side. To your surprise, after setting the plates on the table, the waiter pours a dark liquid over the meat and sets it on fire before bowing himself away. It blazes briefly, but quickly subsides.

“Flambée,” Jace answers your unasked question. “It doesn't cook the food, but it blends the flavours of the sauce in a way that slower cooking wouldn't. The meat itself has been cooked for hours.”

“Wouldn't it be overdone by now?” you ask. Tin Street vendors can often be persuaded to part with unsold meat from the spit after far less time.

Jace shakes his head and encourages you to try it. The meat almost falls apart under your fork; the flavour is rich and not quite like anything you've tasted before.

“A cut like this,” Jace lectures, “is best cooked low and slow -- a long time at a relatively low temperature. This was under rendered fat the whole time, keeping it moist as the connective tissues melted to luxury.”

You wonder if he plans to repeat the trick in your head with the flavours, but don't ask.

He raises an eyebrow at you. Of course. You didn't need to ask aloud.

“Did you want me to?”

You remember his warning, remember your panic at the overlaid experience, and yet . . . you do.

“Ask for it, then,” Jace commands quietly.

“Please, sir,” you start, and aren't quite sure how to phrase it. “Would you . . . show me the flavours again?”

Between one breath and another you can feel him in your mind once more, surrounding around each idea, and you fight the reflex to try to push him out. Your heart is pounding, but you deliberately take a slow breath, as he told you before. You feel his approval, inside and wrapping around you like the most wonderful and reassuring thing in the world and allow yourself to drop into the experience.

Your second bite is clearly the same of the first, but you recognise more. The flavour is pork, but richer than you've had before. You'd noticed the familiar pungency of garlic, but that additional green, almost pine-tree taste stands out more now. Juniper, you know. Or Jace knows. There's less difference now, but you definitely feel that it's _his_ amusement as you struggle with separating the two, or whether you should.

The orange paste is carrot, clearly, with a bit of extra sweetness from honey. The dumplings prove to be a tender pastry rolled with pumpkin and onion, the flavours blending as a perfect complement. The extra layer of Jace's mind on yours is becoming familiar, perhaps also a pleasant complement.

“I'm glad you're enjoying it,” Jace says aloud, and you blush again. He grins impishly, but if he does anything further, you can't feel it.

“There's a limit to how much we can do in a public restaurant,” he says, taking a bite of his own food. “Valko objects to me making the table invisible. Upsets the servers, he says.”

“Of course,” you say, as if the idea of casually deploying invisibility were an obvious solution. You try to suppress your disappointment.

“If you want to experiment further,” he continues, “we could go somewhere else after dinner.”

Your heart lurches. Your brain urges you to flee, run, escape . . . and you can still feel him there, watching those thoughts without intervening. You nod. “I'd like that,” you say.


	3. In Jace's Private Study

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dinner, Jace has invited you back to his private study, where you can experiment with his mind magic without disturbing a restaurant full of diners.

The streets are dark, lights shining against cobbles dampened by a light drizzle. People give the Guildpact room in the streets, and you feel swept along beside him. Damijana is following at a respectful distance.

“Guildpact?” you say breathlessly. Blame the exertion of keeping up with his long stride.

His hooded face turns to you. “Jace will do,” he says, looking amused again.

You're not sure you can call him that to his face. You're not sure that going wherever he's taking you was a good idea. You're increasingly not sure of anything. Your steps falter, and his slow to match you.

“There's still time to back out,” he tells you. “Not a lot of time. But you're not committed yet.”

“Where are we going?” you ask him. You _don't_ want to back out. If you do, you'll regret it for the rest of your life.

Jace waves vaguely, “Back to my private study, I suppose. If you still want to go through with it.” He looks a little sheepish, only just remembering to mention, “You . . . won't actually remember how to get there, of course.”

“I . . . won't?”

“Afraid not,” Jace says. “It's . . . confidential. Even Lavinia doesn't know how to get there; the people who built it don't remember doing so. So, er, if you want to go back there, I'm afraid it's not something you'll remember, either.”

“Damijana?” you ask, your mind racing.

“I'll send her home, if you're not going to need her escort tonight.”

Is the Living Guildpact really asking you to spend the night with him?

_«No, Jace Beleren is.»_ You manage not to flinch at the voice in your mind. _«I can assure you that my intentions are entirely honourable, however. Or at least, I'm not intending to take **sexual** advantage of you.»_

You watch Jace turn to call Damijana over, then you're sitting on a high-backed chair in a cluttered room with Jace crouched in front of you, fingers of his right hand drawing back from your forehead.

“How are you feeling?” Jace asks, his eyes on yours.

You try to raise a hand to your face, and find your wrists tied to the chair.

“What?” you ask stupidly.

You think Jace actually looks embarrassed. “Last time I did this, I . . . ran into an issue with my subject leaving partway through the procedure.” He moves to untie your wrists.

“So you . . . removed some of my memories?” you ask, trying to get your bearings. You're not wearing your cloak any more; it's dripping from the back of another chair; Jace's is thrown over a third. Papers are everywhere.

“That's right,” he says, not taking his eyes off you.

You rub the side of your head, “That was . . . strange.”

He examines you closely, then sits back on his haunches with a grin. “It will get stranger still, I can promise you that.”

You shiver, a thrill of mixed excitement and apprehension running through you. There's more excitement than fear, but the fear _is_ present.

“Guildpact,” you begin.

_«I **have** a name,»_ he interjects in your mind.

“Mr. Beleren,” you try.

_«Jace,»_ he insists firmly. _«We're going to be working together **far** too intimately to stand on ceremony.»_

“But . . .” your mind balks. “You won't actually hurt me, will you, sir?”

Jace sighs and moves some papers off the table. “I have to hear a lot of cases as Guildpact. Mostly things like zoning disputes and damage claims. Some stand out, though. There was one case with a young woman of Rakdos. She had already spent three months in an Azorius prison by the time I heard her case.”

“She had been convicted of unlawfully injuring a young man, son of an Azorius senator. The boy had been going for some time to diversion clubs rumoured to be associated with Rakdos. For his birthday, his buddies decided to treat him to a visit to an official one.”

“His service provider listened to his desires -- I heard the details; be glad you don't have to. They agreed on a scope for the assault. All the parties agreed, so far, on the facts; do you know how rare that is?”

“Anyway, during the course of his treatment, the young man picked up certain marks. They ultimately did not heal cleanly, leaving scars that he testified were interfering with his ability to find a suitable place in Azorius. Of course, Azorius convicted her on the grounds of causing permanent harm without lawful excuse.”

“There were three arguments that her advokist made. The first was that scarring is unpredictable, and that no level of skill will allow a service provider to guarantee that sort of interaction will not result in scarring. The second was contributory negligence; if the young man had seen a healer rather than leaving the marks to heal on their own, the scarring could have been prevented. He'd made those arguments at the Azorius trial, of course; if that were all, it wouldn't have come to the Guildpact's attention.”

“The last point, though, was the most complicated. The advokist argued that as a Cultist of Rakdos, the young woman was not a mere service provider, tasked to please a client. By entering an official Rakdos establishment, the advokist argued, the young man had willingly engaged in a ritual of worship of the demon Rakdos with all the risks that entailed. As the young woman put it, ‘I am not a fetish dispenser; I am a worshipper and leader of worship.’ It was a guild dispute then, between Rakdos worship and Azorius restrictions”

“How did you decide?” you ask curiously.

“Azorius was out of line,” Jace tells you. “The woman was compensated for her time in custody, and the young man required to pay her legal expenses.”

You nod. It makes sense, though you're not entirely sure why he shared the story with you now. Perhaps it was just a distraction from your nerves? If so, it seems to have worked.

“Some things carry inherent risk,” Jace explains. “I know how much damage my mind magic can do, but you've piqued my curiosity about what I can do with a willing partner. Make no mistake, though: I am not a fetish dispenser, to give you what you desire while keeping you safe. There are risks, and while I won't deliberately harm you . . .” he trails off.

You swallow hard and nod. He had warned you earlied, had never pretended it was perfectly safe . . . but you still wanted to go ahead. You still _want_ to go ahead. You nod again, more firmly.

“Well, then,” he says cheerily, “now that that's settled, shall we discuss that little bit of defiance you've been showing me?”

“Whuh?”

“I asked you to call me Jace,” he reminds you.

You can't do it. You can't call The Living Guildpact by his bare name.

_«I think you'll find,»_ the voice is firm in your head, _«That you can't say anything else.»_

Your mouth works. No sound comes out, none of your protests making it from thought to word, and Jace ignores your thoughts.

“Were you saying something?” he inquires, looking at you. “I assure you, you have my _full_ attention.”

Jace's full attention would be overwhelming at the best of times. Now, you're overcome by a need to deflect, to apologise, to get away . . . but still no words will come out.

“Cat have your tongue?” he teases.

You look at him helplessly.

_«Say my name,»_ steady and uncompromising.

“Jace, I,” you gasp. It feels _wrong_ to address him so casually. And it's impossible to say anything if you don't. “I'm sorry. I . . .” and the words refuse to come any more. You literally can't start a sentence without saying ‘Jace’.

_«Again.»_

“Jace, I can't do this,” you're near tears now. You have to respond, but calling him that makes you feel like you're risking dire consequences.

_«You **are** doing it»_

“Jace, please . . . ”

“Please what?” he asks innocently.

He _knows_ what. He's been in your mind the whole time. But he's not granting any leeway. You'll call him by his bare name, or you won't speak at all.

“Jace, why are you doing this to me?”

“Why are you fighting me so hard?” he counters. “Surely you've realised by now that you will not win.”

You won't win. And you're not trying to fight. But it doesn't feel _safe_ to call The Living Guildpact by his first name. And it's certainly not safe to defy him.

_«You wanted this,»_ he reminds you silently. _«To fight and to know you would fail.»_

You did want that. But not this. To be able to fight against him, yes, to have him overpower you . . . but you're flailing against yourself here, and he's just watching from the sidelines as you exhaust yourself. This wasn't what you had in mind.

“Too bad,” Jace says easily. “Say my name.”

You look around. The chair you're sitting on is his, the papers his. The room is his, and there's no exit in sight. And Jace is still there, in front of you, watching. You surrender.

“Jace,” you say, defeated.

He smiles, “There. Doesn't that feel better?”

You blink at him. “Jace?” 

And suddenly it _does_ feel better, pleasant, as if the sun had been behind a cloud and now emerged.

“Jace, what have you done?” The surge of pleasure as you use his name is still there. It feels good, but also alien and a little frightening,

“You're okay,” he reassures you.

“I don't know, Jace,” and it's a warm feeling, safety and familiarity, and still not quite yours.

“It's okay,” he says. “Not all things are shaped by chipping away. Sometimes it's enough to push _here_ and encourage _there_ to create change. The carrot and the stick.”

You nod.

He reaches out to stroke your cheek. “Do you even remember why you were fighting me in the first place?”

You shake your head mutely.

“Hey now,” he objects. “Are you avoiding my name again?”

“No, sir,” you say, but you are.

He sighs and sits back, regarding you in mild exasperation. You can feel the pressure of his mind on yours, and then he nods to himself. You suppose he's adjusted his spell, and you're a little afraid to find out what he's done this time.

“Let's try something different,” Jace says. He takes your hands in his, one in each.

“Most people think of the mind as being something that's all in their head, and a lot of it is there. But it runs through your whole body, along your nerves. Your mind has a _map_ of your whole body. What I'm going to do right now is . . . rewrite that map.” He strokes the back of your left hand with a thumb.

“Watch,” he commands, and you look at your hands obediently. You watch his thumb rub against the back of your right hand, but you continue to feel it on your left.

“That feels odd,” you comment, and he grins. The grin that you've already learned means things are going to get odder.

“Wait right there,” he tells you, and disappears among untidy piles of paper.

Soon, he reappears with a pitcher and two glasses. He smiles and half fills one glass with cold water, then passes it to you.

You reach out your right hand to take the glass, and feel the condensation on the surface, the weight of the glass, the pressure against the fingertips of your left hand. The glass falls out of your right, spilling across the floor.

“I'm so sorry!” you cry, scrambling to pick up the unbroken glass. You see it, reach for it, and command your fingers to close. You feel it in the wrong hand, still, but you manage to pick it up.

Jace smiles approvingly as you hold it out again. He hefts the pitcher. “Ready?”

“Yes, s--” the word catches in your throat, and in the moment of distraction, the glass falls again. He's somehow managed to block you from saying ‘sir’. You pick up the glass again, faster this time. “Yes, Jace,” you say, holding tight to the glass through the alien surge of pleasure.

He pours the cool liquid into the cup; you can feel the weight in your wrong hand, but deliberately grip with the right. Nodding approval, he pours himself some and takes a drink.

“Go ahead,” he urges you, perhaps a little too eagerly. You raise the glass to your lips, and take a sip of the warm, spiced wine.

This time, you manage not to drop the cup, nor spit out the drink.

It still looks like water.

You take another sip. It's very _good_ wine.

Jace grins at you, and you just shake your head. It _is_ a good trick.

“This had better not be getting me drunk, Mis-”

Nope. Can't call him “Mister Beleren”, either. This really isn't fair.

“It's not, is it?” you ask more circumspectly.

“I hadn't thought of that,” Jace says consideringly. You feel a pleasant fuzziness begin to creep over your mind. “I could, though.”

You shake your head, trying to clear it. “Please don't?”

As quickly as it came, the feeling clears again. Your next sip is cool water.

“Thank you,” you say, and he nods easily.

You shift uncomfortably in the chair, looking around the study again. No doors are immediately visible.

“What, trying to escape so soon?” Jace asks lightly.

“What, going to tie me up again?” you risk teasing back.

“Oh, if I just wanted to prevent you from moving, I wouldn't be using rope,” he teases. You think he's teasing, anyway. Your heart picks up the pace, but something else seems more urgent.

“I was, uhh, actually hoping to find a bathroom,” you admit, looking at your shoes and the wet spot still on the floor from spilled water.

“Oh!” he says. “Right over there, beside the desk. Just past the couch.”

You have to look twice to identify the couch under a pile of books, but you follow his gesture and see what you had taken for a curtain hanging against the wall. Using a hand on the table to help yourself up from the chair, you realise the earlier effect is still working.

“Could you, uh, fix my hands first, too?” you feel like you're demanding rather a lot, suddenly.

“Hold your hands out in front of you,” Jace instructs you. “Palms in, just like that.” He levers himself to a standing position, and places his hands outside yours, his palms against the backs of your hands.

You look up into his eyes. They're glowing again, and his face is serious. Suddenly, he pushes your hands together in a sharp clap.

You blink, and he's grinning at you once more. You shake your head again. “How much of that was show, and how much was actually magic?”

Jace laughs, “Oh, about 80% show. Your face was wonderful, though.”

You blush, which only encourages his laughter and extricate yourself from the chair. Heading towards the indicated door, you wonder vaguely what The Living Guildpact's bathroom will be like.

_« **The Guildpact's** bathroom is in the Hall of the Guildpact, and is very nice,»_ his voice reverberates in your brain. _«This is my private study, though, so . . .»_

“Jace,” you call in exasperation, “will you at least get out of my head while I use the toilet‽”

You hear him chuckling from the other room, but all least you don't _feel_ him in your skull. You sigh with relief, then realise something.

_Damn it,_ you think, _I'm actually starting to get comfortable calling him that._

The bathroom is well lit, but small; there are papers strewn across the counter and a pen is tucked in beside the toilet roll. The fittings are well constructed, of course, and work smoothly as you relieve yourself and dispose of the waste. Washing your hands, the text on one of the stray papers catches your eye.

> Any discomfort caused by the improper design, installation, or maintenance of sanitary facilities will be experienced in full by each individual whose errors of design, installation, or maintenance result in such discomfort.

It's in the same handwriting as the rest of the notes you've seen in the study, so you suppose it must be Jace's. You suppose that solves the mystery of why your landlord suddenly prioritised inspecting the water heaters in your building, last week. Apparently the Guildpact is responsible for the recent lack of sudden electrical tingling mid-shower.

Returning to the study feels awkward. He really is The Living Guildpact, and even the things he thinks about while sitting on the toilet have plane-wide consequences.

He's also in the process of moving stacks of paper from the couch to the floor, and looks rather less dignified than one would expect from the most powerful person on the plane.

“Can I help?” you offer. “Don't you have servants for this, or something?”

“Private study, remember? Top secret, nobody else knows how to get here?” Jace shrugs awkwardly, “Besides, it just doesn't feel right to have people serving me.”

You nod, and remember not remembering how you got here. “Why don't I remember you erasing my memories, anyway?” you ask, curiously.

“Memories of the erasure might leave enough clues to what was erased that somebody could work backwards,” he explains. “It's not _likely_ , but . . . caution. You understand?”

You nod. “I do . . . but I'm curious what it feels like, and I don't remember.”

Jace considers for a moment, then grabs a paper from the nearest stack and hands it to you. “Read this.”

>   
> The 5BX Plan for Physical Fitness has been designed for varying age groups covering male members of the Azorius Senate and their dependent children. A similar exercise program for female members of the Azorius Senate has been published under the title “XBX Plan for Physical Fitness”  
> 

You look at him, confused about the significance.

“Just something Lavinia gave me,” he says. “It's not important. Just try to remember it, okay?”

“Okay,” you say hesitantly. “So, you're planning to take up a new exercise program?”

“Not likely,” Jace makes a face. “Now, just have a seat on the couch. Make yourself comfortable. You're going to forget Lavinia's suggestion even more thoroughly than I have.”

You settle onto the couch, and he pulls up a chair in front of you, his knees just outside yours. Even without him tying your wrists again, you can't really get past him without his cooperation.

“Nervous?” he asks you.

Of course you are. “Curious,” you say.

“Me, too,” he admits. “So what do you remember of the paper?”

He hasn't done anything yet, you don't think. “The 5Bx physical fitness plan was designed to cover age groups of the male members of the Azorius senate and their dependent children,” you recite. “A similar plan is being designed for female members of the senate under the name of the 2Bx Physical fitness plan.”

“Pretty good,” he says. “Now just sit back and try not to fight me.”

You've felt the weight of his mind on yours before. It's familiar, and almost comforting, at this point. Almost.

You deliberately relax your shoulders and take a deep breath. Jace smiles approvingly, his eyes starting to glow blue.

You remember being handed the paper, and looking at it. You feel something shifting in your mind, soft and warm but as unyielding as a sand bag. As you try to look at the remembered paper, the words shift and blur, and you feel a lurch in your mind not unlike the lurch in your stomach when an airship undocks.

A feeling of unsteadiness continues, your mind swaying like the gondola under an airship's balloon. You recall Jace asking you to remember what you read, but blur through your reply. You feel unsteady, not exactly ill but confused and disoriented.

He told you to sit down, of course. You remember that. And him sitting facing you, his eyes glowing. The awareness that he has gently but very surely rearranged your mind is unsettling, but not as distressing as you think it should be.

You remember asking for it, remember deliberate relaxation and an approving smile and the warmth and comfort of not being alone in your skull.

“Can you tell me what you read?” Jace asks you.

You shake your head in wonder. “I . . . don't remember. I remember remembering, but I don't _remember_ remember.”

“How do you feel?”

You think about it. “That was . . . an interesting experience. Thank you.”

“You're welcome,” he says. “And I didn't even need to tie you down.”

You laugh at his joke, but curiosity nibbles at you again.

“What is it?” he asks.

“You said you wouldn't have to tie me up to prevent my escape,” you say.

“You don't seem too inclined to escape, at the moment,” Jace points out.

“Well, no,” you admit, “but I still wonder how it would feel.”

Jace shrugs, “There are a few options. The easiest one being pure illusion.”

“How does that one work?”

Jace stands and offers an arm to help you off the couch. You follow him over to a door and he gestures to it.

“Go ahead, make your escape,” he offers.

You open the door. The street outside is dark, and it's still drizzling. You look back at him, and he nods.

You step through the door and bump against his chest, back in the study.

“Oh,” you say.

“Just so.”

“But what if I were more of a threat?” you ask.

Jace looks bemused, “You just want to play with more spells, don't you?”

“Well,” you blush, “yes?”

Jace shrugs, “If you insist.” He takes your shoulder and pushes gently. 

You take a step backwards and plant your feet automatically.

“Steady?” he asks, and you nod. Jace makes a careless gesture and a glowing cord of blue light flows from his hand and around you. You try to shrug it off, but can't move.

Jace grins at you. _«You doing okay?»_

You're not sure why you wouldn't be, but you can't move your mouth to say so. Jace's grin widens, getting a little more mischievous. 

“So it hasn't occurred to you,” he says, walking around you, “exactly how vulnerable you are here?”

It hadn't.

Jace stops in front of you, and slowly unfastens the top three buttons on your tunic. He spreads your collar wide, and you feel the air against your skin. Looking directly into your eyes, he raises a hand and traces along your collarbone with gentle fingers.

You don't shiver, but that's only because you still cannot move a muscle.

He picks up a quill from the pile of stationery on the nearby desk, then uses the barbs of the feather to slowly stroke up and down the side of your neck.

_«You see my point?»_

You do. A thrill runs through you.

“Are you _enjoying_ this?” Jace asks you.

You may not have voluntary muscle control, but your body proves it can still blush.

“Hmmm,” Jace says, and dismisses the spell with a casual wave. “Anything to say for yourself?”

You're already beet red; you might as well. You seek refuge in a literary quotation. “Please, s--” You're still choking on that word, quotation or no.

Deep breath. Try again. “Please, Jace, I want some more?”

Jace laughs. “Are you quite sure of that?”

“Yeah,” you say, looking at your toes in embarrassment.

He considers, “I suppose we could take it to the next level. Not something I'd expect to be enjoyed, though.”

“What is it?” you glance up at him, then back at the floor. He doesn't _look_ disgusted, though, even if he clearly wasn't expecting your response.

“What if,” he says slowly, “instead of just being unable to move, you found your body moving without you?”

“Please?” you ask, your heart pounding against your chest.

“Really?”

“Yes,” you say.

“Look at me,” he orders, lifting your chin until you meet his eyes. “Are you sure?” he asks, holding your gaze.

“Yes.” You can hear your blood in your ears, and your breath is coming faster, but you're sure.

“I'm not going to let you back out partway through,” he warns you.

“Is is going to hurt?” you ask.

“Hurt?” he repeats. “I don't think so. Not physically.”

You close your eyes. “Do it.”

You hear him walk away. Nothing feels different. You open your eyes again and he's sitting on the couch, looking serious.

“Are you sure?” he asks again. This would be easier if he didn't keep giving you opportunities to shy away.

“Yes,” you say as firmly as your can with your voice shaking.

You feel your leg start to move, taking a step towards him. Even expecting it, you reflexively try to pull back; your leg ignores you, and your already rapid heartrate doubles.

Your muscles struggle against the compulsion to move as you try to fight the rising panic. You remind yourself that you asked for this, but it doesn't make a difference to the growing feeling of needing to escape. Mid-step, you manage to jerk yourself off balance enough that you fall on your rump.

Undaunted, ignoring your need to stop and catch your breath, your body rolls to your knees, and begins crawling past the clutter on the floor and towards Jace. Your head rises to look at him, and he's lounging easily on the couch, seemingly exerting no effort to keep you completely helpless.

“Having fun?” Jace asks easily.

You manage to whimper, but the rest of your body is determined to get closer to him, crawling one step at a time, unable to even pull your gaze away from his face. Everything about this is too much, but you don't have a choice any more.

As you finally understand that at your core, you're able to give up. You're aware of the texture of the floor under your hands, the pressure on your knees, the way your body listens to him rather than you . . . and maybe that's okay.

You surrender, letting his control guide you without resistance, and find yourself kneeling in front of him, your head on his lap. His hand strokes your hair steadily, and your breathing starts to slow to match his touch. Whether you close your eyes or he closes them for you doesn't seem to matter, any more. You don't need to move. Your heartrate eases, and you find your mind drifting comfortably.

“How are you feeling?” Jace asks, and perhaps his control has lightened, because you find yourself able to respond.

“Good,” you answer a bit dreamily. “It feels good.”

“How was that, for you?” His voice is gentle. His touch is gentle. You relax against him.

“Intense,” you say honestly, eyes still closed, head resting in his lap. “It was a lot.”

“It was,” he agrees. “How are you feeling now?”

“Good,” you say. “Sleepy.”

He laughs softly. “It has gotten pretty late. Do you work tomorrow?”

“Nuh-uh,” you answer lazily. “Got the day off, on account of plans tonight.”

“Probably wise,” Jace says, still stroking your head. It feels good. “I wish I could say the same.”

Oh, right. He wishes he could say the same about having the day off, not about it feeling good.

“Let's get you set up to sleep, hmm?” He gently moves your head off his lap and leaves you leaning against the couch as he makes his way up a flight of stairs. You're still coming back to full awareness when he returns carrying a badly folded blanket and a pillow.

Your brain is starting to work again, and you realise that you didn't exactly pack an overnight bag for dinner. All you have with you is what you're wearing. You could sleep in your underthings, you suppose, but stripping down in front of Jace would be weird.

Jace is spreading the blanket on the couch, and the pillow near the armrest. Are they from his own bed?

He helps you up from the floor, sitting you in the middle of the couch. You can't exactly ask to borrow a pair of pajamas from The Living Guildpact, can you?

Does he even sleep in pajamas?

Do you really want to speculate about what Jace Beleren wears to bed?

Probably not. He might even be reading your mind, right now.

Something about his amused chuckle, then, tells you that he has been.

“You know,” he says, “There's one mind-magic restraint method we haven't discussed yet.”

“Hmm?” you ask, looking at him. His eyes are already glowing softly, and his hand moving towards you.

“ **Sleep** ,” you hear, as his hand touches your forehead, and then you are.


	4. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All good things must come to an end.

You blink in the light streaming in high windows, tempted to snuggle back into the blanket and go back to sleep. What vivid dreams you had! Blearily, you start taking stock of your memories, sorting dream from reality. It's not the first time you've dreamed of the meeting with Jace Beleren since you found out you'd won the One in a Million contest, but that was perhaps the least realistic. You know how these things are likely to go: dinner, distant politeness, and early to home and bed.

Last night was obviously not early to bed, judging by how muzzy you still feel. You must really have been exhausted, too, to fall asleep on the couch, fully dressed. Apparently, you had had just enough presence of mind to get a soft, blue blanket before passing out, but not enough to actually stagger into the next room and bed.

That . . . doesn't actually make sense. And you don't own a blue blanket. You rub the fabric between your fingers, and realise you don't own _any_ blanket as soft and fine as this one.

You push yourself up, swinging your legs off the couch and knocking over a pile of papers that is _definitely_ not yours. Where did you spend the night?

“Good afternoon, sleepyhead!” You know the voice, and feel your mind laboriously change gears.

Yes, this is very definitely Jace Beleren's private study. Which means you spent the night here. Which means the other details you dismissed as unrealistic dreams were probably the truth.

Okay, then.

You turn and see The Living Guildpact himself weaving through the clutter to the table, carrying a tray of pastries,

 _«I **have** a name,»_ his voice inside your head is warm and amused.

“Good morning, Jace,” you laugh. It feels good to be able to call him that.

“Afternoon,” he corrects, setting the pastries down. “I've already done half a day's work while you were sleeping.”

You remember glowing eyes, but not tucking yourself into bed. “Somehow, I don't think I deserve all the blame for how long I slept.”

Jace grins unapologetically. “You _are_ feeling better today, aren't you?” he asks.

You're not quite sure what he means. Last night was wonderful.

“Anyway, come eat,” Jace tells you. “I only have so long for lunch, and I'd rather not leave you trapped in my inescapable inner sanctum until I'm done for the day.”

Breakfast. Coffee. It all seems so ordinary. Even with all the terrifying things he can do, Jace Beleren is just a normal person underneath.

 _«Thank you very much.»_ You blush; you hadn't meant to think that aloud.

“Though, speaking of terrifying things I can do, I trust you understand that there will be a bit of a memory gap as we navigate out?”

“Yes, of course,” you say, but you're already standing somewhere else, Jace facing you and holding both your hands. You sway a little at the suddenness of the transition, but his grip steadies you.

There are even more books here than in his study; apparently, you made it to the Guildpact Library when your brain wasn't looking. A lone librarian is deliberately not paying attention to the two of you as Jace leads you back out and through the public halls.

Damijana is waiting near the entrance, at a parade rest until she notices Jace. She snaps to attention and greets him with, “Sir!”

 _Oh, so **she's** allowed to say it_, you don't say aloud.

 _«You're special,»_ Jace informs you silently, and you try not to seem visibly flustered in front of the guard. _«Besides, I am literally at work right now, and I am her employer.»_

Okay; that's fair. But it's awkward now, how to say goodbye.

“Thank you for a lovely evening,” you try. “It was an honour to meet you.”

“It was fascinating to meet you,” Jace responds with equal formality. “I enjoyed our time together.”

And that's it; you're following Damijana out of the Hall of the Guildpact, back to reality. The evening's over, and you'll probably never see the man again.

 _«You **know** where to find me,»_ Jace chides in your head. _«I don't have a ton of time to myself, when I'm here, but . . . don't be a stranger, okay?»_ The mental touch is like a gentle, parting caress.

You try to express your assent mentally, not sure if he's even still listening. You're not sure you'll ever have the nerve to take him up on it, but . . . you did a lot of things last night that you wouldn't have expected to have the nerve to do.

Perhaps you will.

**Author's Note:**

> This "Jace the Mind Sculptor" story is unofficial Fan Content permitted under the Fan Content Policy. Not approved/endorsed by Wizards. Portions of the materials used are property of Wizards of the Coast. ©Wizards of the Coast LLC.


End file.
